


buffer

by sirenseven



Series: props [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Person Bruce Wayne, Blow Jobs, Bottom Tim Drake, Choking, Clothed Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Heavily Implied Sexual Abuse, Jason Todd Has Issues, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Rough Sex, Tim Drake is Robin, just some really fucked up relationships going on here, mild glove kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: It's not what Jason was planning, but Drake looks good on his knees, and Bruce is watching, and maybe he wants to find out just how much Bruce will allow Jason to do to his precious new Robin.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, implied Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: props [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 25
Kudos: 243





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**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all, remember to check those tags in case you somehow missed them. a lot of consent is not given here. one character is like sixteen. at least one character straight up enjoys hurting another. on a very technical level there is no incest since tim hasn't been adopted and jason and bruce are basically social distancing, but lbr with ourselves, it's pretty incestuous--and that is not even getting at all the past stuff that's implied.
> 
> if you're in for all of that, come join me in the dumpster and enjoy

The last time Jason saw Bruce, he threw a batarang at Jason's neck rather than break his damn code. Saved the worst monster they know, and let Jason vanish. The last time Jason saw Tim Drake, he was beating the kid into the stone floor of Titans Tower. Bruised and bleeding was a good look for the kid.

Kneeling is even better.

Not how he pictured his day.

Batman stands halfway across the small warehouse, a long abandoned space that was once a lab of some kind by the sparse remnants lefts. Drugs, presumably, this being Gotham. Street lamps and moonlight filter in the broken windows, just enough to let them all see and be seen.

It's the kind of dingy Gotham hole where Batman is meant to be found, half in darkness, silent and still, inscrutable as ever. Ever accompanied by the incongruous bright spot of Robin: Drake, colorful and masked, at Jason's feet. Batman and Robin—and whatever the fuck Jason is—in all their glory.

Though Robin doesn't usually get down on his knees for a snidely crass comment from the enemy, even if they do all know it's a little too accurate to be a joke.

 _Do you want him to?_ Bruce had asked, after Jason said it.

And Jason didn't really think about the question, didn't ask himself, _hm,_ do _I want him to_? He'd just seen a fire he could throw fuel on, and immediately said yes.

So Drake had. Knelt.

Bruce is halfway across the warehouse, didn't lay a hand on Drake, so it would be obviously false to say Bruce had done it for him. That Bruce had _made_ Robin's knees bend and hit the ground, willed his body down. Bruce isn't a meta, can't pilot their bodies; shared only a scant look with the kid. And yet Jason still can't help but think that Drake didn't kneel, but Bruce _knelt_ Drake, like it's a verb to be enacted on someone else.

Either way, he's on his knees now. And Bruce is watching.

Jason could (should) laugh it off. Could rub it in their faces. Could throw the cruelest of his condemnations at Drake—and his worst are bad; he's been silently working at them years, long before Drake came in the picture to become their new target.

He could swing out of here. Slam the door over the sound of his laughter. Leave them humiliated or rebuked, _is this how easy the Boy Wonder gives it up?_

But. Bruce is watching.

Jason looks from the color at his feet to the shadow that is Batman, so still that not a scrap of fabric on his armor dares flutter. Back down, the yellow-lined cape swaying gently with the motion that took Drake to his knees. Jason waits as it steadies, thinks about how he should laugh and insult and leave, thinks about Bruce watching. The silence expands to a solid thing, pressing against and between them, holding everyone in its grasp. And _Jason_ gets to decide when it breaks. Drake kneeling for him. Bruce waiting on _him_.

The yellow-lined cape slows its drifting to a stop.

“Well?” Jason says, chin tilted expectantly.

Drake twists around for another look at Batman. Jason would swear there's no signal, swear Bruce doesn't move a muscle, but it must be enough.

There's no more hesitation when Drake straightens up to work on Jason's pants.

The green gloves against dark pants are probably the kind of metaphor his old English teacher would jack off to, but Jason finds his gaze drifting up to Bruce. He keeps waiting for Bruce to stop him. Waiting for the _flinch_. Waiting for the proof Jason furiously demands, the proof that he cares about this _pretender_ more than he own goddamn son.

It doesn't happen. Pants open, doesn't happen. Underwear nudged aside, nothing. Quiet slide off a glove coming off, careful hand on bare skin. Not a twitch.

Bruce is a statue.

The first brush of lips finally pulls Jason's gaze down, a shiver of anticipation racing along his spine. Soft lips mouth at tip of his cock as Tim's bare hand strokes the base, already half-hard. There's no timidity to the motion, no playing it coy or pretending he doesn't know what he's doing. The act would be pointless. They all know who Bruce is.

Jason likes it from this side. Looking down. (Was this what he looked like?)

He shoves the thought aside when Tim's mouth parts properly, opening around the head, sucking and swirling his tongue. He pushes higher up on his knees to take the next few inches, lips stretching obscenely. Jason can feel the undulation of his tongue on the underside, but the kid's mouth is running out of room to move it properly, relying on a steady rhythm of suction to pick up the slack.

It's good; it's a damn good performance, enough that Jason has to focus to keep his breathing steady and silent, but it's missing something, not quite what he needs. With his mouth so far open, and the domino mask above, Tim's face is unreadable.

Jason doesn't like it. And he's in charge here. He could tell Drake to take it off, keep his participation hands-free, let Drake do all the work. But he doesn't want that. He wants—

The ripping of adhesive against skin seems incalculably louder than the soft sounds of Tim's mouth, echoing through the warehouse. Drake flinches for a second at the sudden motion, sucking in on instinct, mouth tightening—and, god, Jason is ready to fucking _hurt_ him if there's a hint of teeth—but he recovers quickly.

The rhythm resumes like it never stuttered at all, slight rocks up and down an inch or so of Jason's cock, sucking hard on the drawback, hand taking up what slack his mouth doesn't reach.

To Jason's annoyance, Tim's revealed expression betrays neither pleasure nor pain, just a furrow of concentration between his eyebrows. Like it's any other task. Meaningless. _Easy_.

That won't fucking do at all.

Jason tangles a hand in Drake's hair and yanks _hard_ , not away but tilting back, not looking to move him but to _hurt_. Blue eyes snap up at the motion—and _there_.

There it is. Pink skin around his eyes, mask ripped off without solvent. Skin tight with the force of Jason's hand pulling his hair, eyes just a little wide when they meet Jason's. Not Robin. Not anyone. Just a fucking kid in a costume. Sucking cock on his knees.

Jason's own domino obfuscates his expressions, but not the sliver of a smirk that breaks through. Maybe he should have kept the helmet. Then again, maybe he _likes_ letting Drake see just a hint of enjoyment—not the complimentary kind, not Bruce's elusive _good boy_ , but _I am getting something out of this and you aren't_.

Drake's eyes stay locked up as he starts bobbing, testing against Jason's grip, aborting the motion when the strain against his scalp is too much. Jason should let him do it—clearly the kid's technique is well-practiced, sure to get him off if Jason allows it—but something about the control keeps his hand locked in.

He plays with it. Loosens enough to let Drake press down and back up, sucking the whole time and sending bolts of pleasure right up Jason's body—and then the next bob, he yanks back suddenly, drawing the slightest noise of surprise from the kid's throat when his motion is stopped. Allows another few bobs without interference, hand holding but not controlling—then a yank. The next time Drake leans in, Jason pushes with him, forcing him down faster than intended, bumping against his throat. Keeps him unclear on the nonexistent pattern.

Drake chokes at the pushes, eyelids flinch at the tugs, makes the tiniest of choked-off sounds at the roughest moves, but his eyes stay on Jason. His unused, still gloved hand, Jason notes, remains in his lap the whole time.

No fight, no pushing back, not even a steadying hold of Jason's thigh or hip. It's like he already knows exactly what he gets to do and what he gets to touch: only what Jason allows.

What Bruce is _letting_ Jason allow.

Jason's eyes flick up, a jolt of cold in his rib cage reminding him how thoroughly he's let himself get distracted from the biggest threat in the room. But there's been no move to stop him from defiling the latest golden child, and he spots the shape of Batman immediately. Bruce hasn't moved an inch from where he was before. Hasn't, seemingly, moved a muscle.

Jason can't tell where his eyes are, behind the whiteouts on the cowl, but he has a damn good guess. His hips twitch at the thought, like they're trying to perform. Drake adjusts seamlessly.

He goes down a little deeper on the next bob, Jason giving him the motion unfettered this time, that suction still perfect. When his cock nudges against Drake's throat again, Jason finally allows himself a soft moan, eyes still on Bruce.

For the first time, he catches a twitch. Subtle. Barely anything from this distance, if it weren't for the way the flutter of the cape amplifies it.

Determination seizes Jason.

His hips thrust with more purpose, hand tightening in Drake's hair again to compliment the motion. _God_ , but Bruce has the kid fucking trained well, letting Jason take over without a moment's hesitation. Tim's hand stills, remaining loosely at the base of Jason's cock, letting himself be moved. His tongue and his mouth don't stop helping.

It's good. It's _damn_ good, Jason's toes curling in his boots, fighting to keep his expression level, though he knows his breathing has picked up. He could come like this no problem, if he wanted to, right in the kids mouth.

But Bruce isn't moving. And that's...

“You fucking him?” Jason asks, mouth twisted in an unkind smile as he keeps Drake working to his rhythm. He doesn't even look down at the kid anymore.

Bruce just tips his head slightly, in a way that means nothing. His expression remains unreadable. It doesn't matter. Jason can guess the answer.

“Yeah,” Jason murmurs.

He doesn't know if he wants Bruce to move, or wants Bruce to not move, but there's something about _proving_ it he definitely wants. Something about Bruce across the room, watching Jason play with his toy, and _how much_ will _you let me get away with_?

Without warning, Jason grabs Tim's head in both hands and yanks him in, hips thrusting forward with a grunt, giving that clench of throat no choice but to take him in. Tim chokes on it, strangled sounds as his hand is sandwiched between Jason's abdomen and his own face. For the first time, the other hand jerks up, pressing against Jason's thigh.

And Bruce. Does. Not. Move.

The sparks shooting through Jason might be from Tim's throat contracting and squeezing around him as the kid wriggles, or they might be fucking _victory_. There's his goddamn proof.

He sets up a punishing rhythm without hesitation, snapping down Tim's throat each time, never entirely coming up. The kid squirms and fists his hand in Jason's pants, but he doesn't actually fight back, doesn't try to push away. He can't seem to catch his bearings enough to stop those strangled sounds, and they're _music_ to Jason's ears.

He wants to look down, wants to see how the kid looks like this, face fucked, hair held, if his eyes are welling up, but Jason doesn't take his eyes off Bruce.

Those blank whites in a dark cowl stare just as steadily back, and they are permission. Jason gets to control, gets to do whatever he wants to the kid. Drake gets to kneel and choke. And Bruce allows.

A desperate moan pulls out of Jason's mouth as he jackhammers harder. Tim's throat is tight and perfect, takes it all; maybe Jason's understanding Bruce better. He can feel it swelling, can't hold on much longer.

He looks down again, and sees tears squeezing out the corners of Tim's eyes from choking, even as he desperately tries to follow Jason's rhythm, to let Jason _take_ —

Jason pulls him in as deep as he gets and comes, groaning. Sparks behind his eyes, keeping himself upright through sheer force of will. His eyes find Bruce again while he shudders through each wave. A hand at the base of Drake's skull holds him in as the kid chokes for real now, struggling. Choking on his come.

Bruce doesn't move, not really, but there's something in his posture maybe, something in his face, that softening hint they all desperately look for. Jason moans on one last spurt down Drake's throat.

He comes back to himself, breathing hard. His grip keeps Tim on his cock a few seconds longer, until the kids starts digging his nails into Jason's thighs, pulling away in earnest, and then he releases.

Tim falls back, coughing hard. Jason doesn't even bother to look at him as he tucks himself back into his pants. He can't quite tell which way Bruce is looking. At him? Or at Drake on the floor?

When Jason does finally deign to spare the attention, Tim has stopped coughing, panting as he looses the other glove. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then his eyes with his fingers. When he straightens, he's a mess: hair mussed, eyes sparkling, a drop of come down his chin that he missed, and swollen, Robin-red lips. The mask lays abandoned a few feet away.

He doesn't stand. He shifts back to his knees without a complaint, puts his hands in his lap, and looks up at Jason.

 _Jesus, Bruce_.

He must be fucking thrilled with this one. Obedient little toy.

The thought sticks like a burr. Tim watches Jason silently, waiting for—what? A dismissal? Orders? A fucking _attaboy_?

No. He waited for the instruction from Jason to suck his cock, but then it was permission from Bruce. From _Bruce_...

Jason's eyes flick between them. His dick is more than satisfied. He could dismiss the kid and fuck off right now, content with one of the best orgasms of his life.

But. He won't.

Drake is wiping that missed spot on his chin with the heel of his hand, grimacing. When he looks at Jason, it's not some wide-eyed, naive offering. Not a blank-eyed toy either. It's focused, eyes intelligent, like he's awaiting mission parameters—just with the posture of an obedient schoolboy.

Not a toy. A sidekick. Bruce's perfect Robin.

Bruce's perfect little Robin that he won't stop Jason from wrecking, but... But. Jason is nothing if not someone who pushes his boundaries.

“Over the table,” he says.

Drake rises to obey.

“Table” might be pushing it. Workbench, more like, worn metal surface with beams between the legs, bolted to the ground. Probably the only reason it was left behind when whatever operation used this place had to bail out.

Drake leaves his mask and gloves behind as he approaches it, Jason stalking after him like a predator. One that has no need to hurry. When Tim reaches the table, Jason steps up right against his back, yanking the leotard down his arms, down his body, dropping it to the floor. He shoves Drake's torso down over the table.

Jason turns to Bruce, sizing him up. For the first time since Drake worked open his pants, he feels a thrill of anxious anticipation, a _this can't possibly work_.

“Show me,” he says.

And, miraculously, Bruce moves on his command. Jason's heart pounds.

He shoves Robin's cape up and aside as the man comes over, then reconsiders the angle and hoists the kid further onto the table until he has to rise onto his toes. As Bruce's footsteps stop beside them, Jason reaches around to tug Drake's pants and briefs to his knees in one go. On a moment's thought, he pushes the hem of the green shirt up too. Bruce likes skin, he knows, and Jason needs to...needs it to test his motivation here.

Carefully not thinking about how close he is to the man, Jason pushes down between Drake's shoulder blades again in warning, though the kid is already flat, and steps away.

There. Plenty easy to see which way Bruce is looking. And right now, it's at Jason.

He raises his eyebrows enough that it's visible even with the domino, and Bruce sets to work, reaching into his belt. Jesus, of course he would carry lube in his fucking utility belt. Never know when you might need to fuck a Robin. Asshole.

Bruce tugs on his gauntlets.

“Leave them,” Jason blurts out, words unplanned for the first time.

Once again, Bruce does so without hesitation, not a single word in protest. He pours generously over the gloved fingers. Jason wasn't thinking about how Bruce will now have to find a way to surreptitiously clean them when he made the order, but it gives him a little spark of glee anyway.

He still hasn't look at the expanse of skin Jason revealed for him. Jason expects a hand to brush across, a moment to take it in when he looks down, but there is neither. Bruce's motions are straightforward, businesslike. His head doesn't even move to look anywhere up Tim's body, solely focused on his task.

One hand comes up to spread his ass, and then Jason watches as a single black gloved finger on the other slowly presses in.

Jason isn't being tested, so he lets his eyes wander without issue. Tim's hands curl against the far edge of the workbench, body squirming—at the intrusion, the cold, or the strange texture, Jason can't say. A single finger is probably nothing to him by now. Hell, he may just be trying to get comfortable in his balance against the table.

He settles for twisting his head to the side. In Jason's direction, he happily notes, though Tim largely seems focused on peering down to where Bruce works.

The finger pumps in and out, swirls around, doing its job in loosening him up. Jason can't tell how it moves inside, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything special for Drake. Good. This isn't about _him_.

Just as he's starting to get impatient, a second joins it. The stretch seems somehow more obscene with gloves—or maybe Jason's just never seen it from this angle. Black against pale skin. There's a squelch to it still, but the sound is different, more muted. Tim's steady breaths almost match the volume.

Jason shifts to get a better angle, watching how tightly the fingers press together as they leisurely fuck in and out. After his initial shifting, Drake seems to have settled. His cheek squishes slightly against the table, mouth and hair still wrecked from where Jason worked on him. He can't possibly see much from that angle, but his eyes stay on Bruce.

Bruce is looking at Jason.

It's another spark of glee to realize. He's not staring, not necessarily even looking at Jason's face. Sometimes the mask turns to check his work, see how his fingers are doing, if the rim of that tight ass is getting any looser. But as soon as he's checked, and the times in between—it's turned towards Jason.

“Take the cowl off,” he says softly.

He expects to finally hear a complaint for that, but that's what this whole thing is, isn't it? Jason _expects_ , and Bruce proves him wrong.

With his free hand, Bruce pushes the cowl back. He meets Jason's eyes for a moment, his own steady and calm, and then softens to that not-quite eye-contact. After a minute, Bruce looks down again to check, and now Jason knows for certain that his eyes don't stray from his fingers and Drake's ass.

They spread a little, testing, getting barely a hair's breadth of a gap between.

“That's enough prep,” Jason says, voice still low.

It's not. He knows damn well it's not, and Bruce must too, but he slides his fingers out anyway and sets to the over-complicated clasps of the batsuit.

Tim _definitely_ knows it's not enough.

“Wait,” he starts, lifting his head from the table. His voice is beautifully hoarse.

First complaint Jason has heard all night.

When neither man responds, Tim's fingers release their grip. One hand reaches back.

“Hey,” Jason barks.

Tim freezes. His eyes flick between Jason and Bruce. After a moment, he lowers his palm to the table.

Jason has never seen him look worried before. Last time, when Jason was beating the shit out of him—or just now, fucking his throat—Drake always seemed to hang onto determination until the point of no return where it turned into simple pain, choking on his own blood or Jason's come. This hint of fear is a new look. A good look.

“Bruce,” Tim tries, soft, like Jason isn't three feet away.

Jason's heart thrums with anticipation. _Time to chose_. No death on the line, no precious code in the way, but still _me or him_. It's not a nervous beat, though. It's excitement.

Bruce doesn't respond. Doesn't even look at Tim. The groin of the suit finally opens enough to free his cock.

Tim straightens up.

No, he _starts_ to straighten up. Bruce catches him on the diagonal, hand spread against his back. It looks enormous between the kid's shoulder blades. In a steady motion, he leans Tim flat against the table once more.

For just a split second, Jason remembers what it's like on the other side of that unhurried control and his stomach lurches. Bruce isn't even rough about it. He doesn't need to be. The fact that the hand is there, that Bruce _wants_ , is enough to ensure obedience.

Jason _wants_ too.

Jason wants, and Bruce is looking at him, waiting for _his_ orders. One of those hands remains on Tim's back, not even holding him down, just lightly poised. The other holds his cock at the ready. Already hard. Maybe hard since he watched Jason get his fucking glorious blowjob. He hopes so.

He nods to Bruce.

If the stretch of fingers was obscene, then this is absurd. Impossible—or like it should be. Tim isn't _small_ , average teenager with Robin's muscle, but he's not big like Bruce is. Like Jason is now too. Like Bruce could not, should not possibly fit in his body, but will make himself nonetheless.

Tim gasps as Bruce forces the head in, eyes squeezing shut. Jason can't help but imagine what it must feel like, the clench. And from the other side: Bruce prepped him enough that the skin won't split, he won't bleed, but it will hurt. Pain-pleasure or just pain, Jason can't yet say.

Bruce presses in, slow but steady, stretching and stretching that rim around him, feeds his cock in deeper. Half of it has vanished when he stalls out, Tim panting.

Jason frowns. He's about to tell Bruce not to wait, when he catches sight of the man's expression, frowning just the same. He didn't stop to let Drake adjust. He stopped, Jason realizes, because it's too tight.

Bruce pulls back a few inches and then punches in again, making it a hair further than he did before. His hand readjusts to grip Tim's hip, the other still on his back, as he starts up in quick jabs, inching his way deeper. Tim makes small breathy sounds with each one. When they start to have voice, Jason even feels his spent cock give a stir of interest.

The minute seems to last ages until finally, with a final thrust, Bruce manages to bury his entire length. God.

Tim releases a long breath, turning his forehead onto the metal surface.

“Okay,” he rasps. “Just hang on a second, okay?”

But he doesn't see Bruce looking to Jason again. Looking to Jason like Tim looked to Bruce. Permission.

“Fuck him,” says Jason.

Bruce does.

Long, deep strokes, pulling most of the way out and then thrusting fully in, every inch of that length forcing its way into the tight space Bruce has barely opened up. The motion punches a startled sound out of Tim, and Jason hears himself hiss a, “ _Yesss_ ,” before he's realized.

“Bruce—” gasps Tim, trying to twist around again, and _ah—ah—ah—_ as the thrusts continue.

Bruce's hand slips to his shoulder and tightens, keeping him down.

“ _Wait_ ,” says Tim, toes scrambling against the ground. The hand on his hip slips inward, thumb reaching to pull his ass open, keeping it apart. One of his feet slips entirely, dangling an inch of the ground, left supported only by the other's tip-toes and Bruce's weight.

“Make him scream,” says Jason, because he _can_ , because Bruce _will._

The grip on Tim's shoulder moves to his jaw, pulling it down. Bruce slips his first two fingers into his mouth, against his tongue, holding it open. Tim's exclamations turn wordless and unmuffled, ringing out in the space.

Bruce's other hand hitches Tim's hip up further, shifts the angle of his ass, the angle of Bruce's thrusts, until the next cry comes out different. Higher, breathier, _pleasured_. Tim's eyes roll back behind half-closed lids. It's not what Jason meant, but maybe it should have been because it's fucking beautiful.

The thrusts quicken, pushing a noise out every time. Even Bruce starts to grunt softly, though it's nearly drowned out by his little toy's cries. Cry _ing_ , tears beading up in his eyes again.

Tim is a mess, back arched between Bruce's hands, saliva and tears on his face, barely touching the ground as he whimpers and moans. Bruce is focused, but hardly pristine either, hair rumpled by his cowl and his pounding, fingers squeezing too tight.

Jason is the only one controlled, even as his cock is stirring again. The only one _in_ control.

“Harder,” he says, somehow more turned on by this than by a mouth on his cock. “Make him _hurt_. _Show me_.”

Bruce's eyes flick to him, assessing for a moment. Sweat has dampened his hair, expression hungry, but still careful when he looks at Jason. Something steadies his gaze, some note of _trust me_ , as he lifts Tim's hips further and reaches under them. Jason wouldn't have, an hour ago, but he does now, wondering what Bruce intends to show him.

Jason can't see it, but the motion of Bruce's arm leave no doubt he's stroking the kid as he orders, “Come.”

Tim's flickering eyes dart to him, to Jason for a moment, and away again.

Bruce growls, dropping his dick to grip his hips with both hands, pounding in.

“ _Now_ ,” he says, looking at Jason, punctuating with a sharp thrust before grinding against Tim.

Jason's eyes widen as the kid does, body coiling and loosening as he comes untouched. His toes curl and lose any purchase on the floor, legs shaking, head lolling, and cries reaching their peak. Tim slumps bonelessly against the table, hips faintly twitching.

Bruce resumes thrusting.

Tim makes a worried sound, but doesn't protest in words. Doesn't even fight as Bruce picks up the same punishing rhythm, stabbing right against—god, right against his oversensitive nerves. Tim grips tight on the table again, Bruce yanking him back and forth as much as he is thrusting.

Hoarse whines turn to moans turn to sobs, the kid's mouth dangling open like he can't even manage to close it anymore. Jason wants to fuck it again.

Bruce thrusts harder, faster. Jason doesn't even have to tell him too. Bruce is watching him, doing what he's asked without a blink of hesitation. His breathing starts to get ragged, hands clenched in a bruising grip, eyes slipping down in concentration, and Jason knows he's holding back. Waiting for the instruction. Proving, once and for all, who he does care about.

“In him,” Jason says. “Do it in him.”

Bruce thrusts a few more times, ragged and hard, pressing the entirely of his length in. Finally, he shoves forward one final time and shudders, groaning deeply. One hand slips off Tim's hip, bracing against the table as he leans forward.

Jason feels like he just got off himself, even as his cock reminds him he definitely didn't.

After a few seconds of panting, Bruce pulls out and steps back, quietly tucking himself away. Tim stays where he is, slumped on the work bench with his legs dangling. Come drizzles down the inside of his thighs.

When Bruce is all put together but for the cowl, he looks at Jason. For the first time, there's no one between them. He might have forgotten about the would-be Robin entirely; there's no need for props anymore.

“Well, that was fun,” says Jason, because it's true and because he needs to say something flippant when Bruce is looking at him like that.

“Come to the manor,” Bruce entreats, soft and low.

Jason finally gives that laugh he should've given ages ago. There's a bounce to his steps as he backs away.

He can't help a final smirk to Tim, who has started pushing himself up on shaking arms. “Catch you later, kid.”

“Jason,” Bruce says softly.

Jason gives a sarcastic wave over his shoulder and makes his leave.

He's not going to the manor. Probably. Maybe. Not tonight, anyway.

Even if he does desperately jack off the second he reaches a safe house, Tim's cries and Bruce's gaze still vivid in his mind.


End file.
